Red Alert

Four

Mary Robson had always dreamed of becoming a professional dancer ever since she was eight years old. She took up ballet at school but her real love was disco dancing and when, at the age of seventeen, she won a national competition in her home town of Newcastle a theatrical agent offered her a small part in a leading West End musical. Her parents refused to give their consent, arguing that they wanted her to finish her education first. Six months later she ran away to London, certain she would land a part in another West End show, but when she got there she found that she was just one of hundreds, many of whom were better dancers. She took a job in a Soho strip club to make ends meet and it was there that she met Wendell Johnson, a West Indian with a long criminal record. Three months after moving in with him she discovered she was pregnant. She was only nineteen when their son, Bernard, was born. The dream was over.

She was now twenty-two years old, overweight and unemployed. Wendell was in prison, where he had already served ten months of a seven-year sentence for burglary. She would wait for him. Her parents couldn’t understand how she could love a man like him. Neither could they understand that she wanted her son to have a father, even if he was a criminal. Not that she saw much of them anyway. She would bring up her son in her own way and to hell with what anyone else thought. And that included her parents.

She finished drying the dishes then stood looking out of the window over the sink at the row of bleak terraced houses on the opposite side of the street. It was a mirror image of all the streets in the neighbourhood.

She hated Brixton: it was so depressing. Wendell liked it, because all his friends were there. She had tried to persuade him to put his name down for a council house in Streatham but he had always refused to budge on the issue. They would stay in Brixton.

A police car pulled up in front of the house. Inside were two policemen. The driver got out of the car and approached the front door.

Mary discarded her apron and hurried into the hallway. The doorbell rang. Her mind raced as she fumbled to unlock the door. It had to be about Wendell. She pulled open the door, her eyes wide with anxiety.

‘Are you Miss Mary Robson?’ the policeman asked.

‘Yes,’ she stammered. ‘Something’s happened to Wendell, hasn’t it?’

The policeman nodded. ‘He was stabbed in a fight at the prison. Don’t worry though, he’ll be all right.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s been taken to the Greenwich District Hospital.’

‘Can I see him?’

‘That’s why we’re here,’ the policeman replied with a reassuring smile.

‘I won’t be a minute, I just have to get my son.’

He waited until she was out of sight then looked back at the police car and nodded to his colleague.

The man in the passenger seat removed his peaked cap and raked his fingers through his thick black hair. The black moustache gave a sinister edge to his youthful features. Even so he looked nearer twenty-five than his real age of thirty-seven. His name was Victor Young.

He smiled to himself as Dave Humphries led Mary Robson and her son towards the police car. It was all going according to plan.

Whitlock and Lonsdale arrived at Brixton police station at eleven o’clock and were immediately ushered into the station commander’s office. Chief Inspector Roger Pugh was a tall man in his late forties with silver-grey hair and an easy manner which helped to put them at their ease. He shook hands with them and indicated the two chairs in front of his desk.

‘What time are we due out?’ Whitlock asked, sitting down. ‘Major Lonsdale wasn’t sure whether it would be eleven-thirty or twelve.’

‘Eleven-thirty,’ Pugh replied.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ Pugh called.

The man who entered was in his late twenties with short black hair and a stocky physique. He was wearing the uniform of a warder. Lonsdale introduced him to Whitlock as Sergeant Don Harrison who would be driving the police van. Harrison handed Lonsdale a uniform identical to the one he was wearing.

‘There’s a changing room down the hall,’ Pugh said. ‘The desk sergeant will show you the way.’

‘I might as well change in here,’ Lonsdale replied, giving Pugh a mock suspicious look. ‘You’re not expecting any WPCs, are you?’

‘Not today, I’m afraid,’ Pugh said with a smile.

‘How did things go with Alexander?’ Lonsdale asked Harrison as he started to undress.

‘He kicked up a bit of a fuss so we had to drug him. No trouble after that. He’s sleeping it off at the safe house.’

Harrison took a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and handed them to Whitlock. ‘Alexander was wearing these.’

‘Thanks,’ Whitlock said, slipping them on.

‘Are the men ready?’ Lonsdale asked.

‘Yes sir,’ Harrison replied. ‘They’re waiting at the van.’

‘Put them into the cages, we’ll be along in a minute.’

Harrison left the room.

Lonsdale finished dressing, then picked up his clothes from the floor. ‘You don’t mind if I leave these here, do you?’

‘Not at all. Put them on the chair.’ Pugh got to his feet and extended his hand towards Whitlock. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks for all your help,’ Whitlock said, shaking Pugh’s hand.

‘Glad to be of service. Major, I’ll speak to you later.’

Lonsdale nodded then left the room with Whitlock. They made their way out into the courtyard where the pale-blue police van was parked. Harrison led them round to the back of the van. The doors were open. Inside was a narrow corridor with three cells on either side of it.

Harrison unlocked one of the cells, removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and snapped them around Whitlock’s wrists. Whitlock entered the cell and Harrison locked it behind him. Harrison climbed out of the van and locked the doors. He handed the keys to Lonsdale. They got into the cab and Harrison started the engine.

‘Ready, sir?’ Harrison asked, his hand resting lightly on the gear lever.

‘Let’s go.’

Harrison engaged the gears and drove out into Brixton Road, the A23. He kept the speed steady, his eyes continually flickering towards the side mirror.

‘What are you looking for, Sergeant? They’re hardly going to advertise themselves, are they?’

Harrison smiled ruefully but said nothing. They reached the top of Brixton Road and he was about to turn the van into Kennington Park Road when he heard the police car coming up fast behind them. He automatically touched the brake pedal and pulled over to give the police car the right of way. The police car passed them then immediately slowed and the driver indicated for them to stop.

‘What the hell does he want?’ Harrison hissed angrily, pulling up behind the red and white Rover.

‘Whitlock, probably,’ Lonsdale replied, his body tensing as the policeman in the passenger seat got out of the car ahead.

‘You think .. . ?’ Harrison trailed off and nodded to himself.

‘Of course, what could be more natural than a police car and a police van pulled up at the side of the road? Nobody would think of questioning it.’

The policeman knocked on the driver’s window. Harrison opened it.

‘What’s wrong? We’ve got five prisoners in the back who are due at the Old Bailey at twelve o’clock.’

‘You see the woman and the kid in the back of the police car?’ Young asked, making no attempt to disguise his American accent.

‘Yes,’ Harrison replied hesitantly. ‘What about them?’

‘They’re both unconscious. My colleague has a gun trained on them.’ Young put a two-way radio to his lips. ‘Show them the gun.’

Humphries raised the automatic momentarily, then ducked it back out of sight.

‘If you don’t do exactly as I say, he’ll kill them both. Starting with the kid.’

‘What the hell is–’

‘Shut up!’ Young cut sharply across Harrison’s outburst. ‘Switch off the engine.’

‘Do it,’ Lonsdale said softly.

Harrison did as he was told.

‘I’m in charge here,’ Lonsdale said to Young. ‘I demand to know what’s going on.’

‘You will. Now give me the keys,’ Young said, holding out a black-gloved hand.

Harrison looked at Lonsdale, who nodded. He gave them to Young.

‘Get out of the van, both of you,’ Young said, stepping away from the driver’s door.

Again Lonsdale nodded to Harrison, and they got out of the van. Young led Harrison round to where Lonsdale was standing, his eyes riveted on the woman and her son in the back of the police car. He hated any form of hostage-taking, especially when children were involved. He suddenly thought of his own five-year-old daughter, Holly. It only made him more frustrated. He felt so damn helpless. There were times when he really hated the job…

‘Who’s got the keys to the back of the van?’ Young demanded.

‘I have,’ Lonsdale replied.

‘Open the doors.’ Young pointed to Harrison. ‘You, walk beside him. And remember, any heroics and the kid dies.’

Young followed the two men to the back of the van and watched as Lonsdale unlocked the doors and opened them. The men inside the cages began to shout abuse, demanding to know what was happening. Lonsdale had told them to make their performances as realistic as possible: Young mustn’t suspect a thing. Young motioned Lonsdale and Harrison into the back of the van and then climbed in after them.

‘Where’s Alexander?’

‘So that’s what it’s all about,’ Lonsdale said, eyeing Young with disdain.

‘Where is he?’

Lonsdale indicated Whitlock’s cell.

‘Open it.’

Lonsdale and Harrison exchanged glances.

‘I said open it. Unless you want the kid to die.’

Lonsdale took the keys from his pocket, selected one, and unlocked the cell.

‘What’s going on?’ Whitlock snapped as Lonsdale pulled open the door.

‘You’re being sprung,’ Young told him. ‘Now get out of there.’

Whitlock stared at Young with mock disbelief. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m not a cop, that’s all you need to know for the moment.’

Whitlock pushed past Lonsdale, then extended his manacled hands towards him.

‘You’ve got the key, screw. Uncuff me.’

Young took the key for the handcuffs from Lonsdale, pocketed it, then shoved Harrison and Lonsdale into the empty cell and locked it. He grabbed Whitlock by the arm and led him out of the van, locking the doors behind him.

‘You can uncuff me now,’ Whitlock said, nudging Young with his elbow.

‘Shut up,’ Young snapped, then led Whitlock to the police car. He opened the back door and peered in at Humphries. ‘Is this him?’

Humphries nodded. ‘That’s Reuben all right.’

‘Get in,’ Young said, bundling Whitlock into the back of the police car beside the unconscious Mary Robson. Hurriedly he got into the passenger seat beside Humphries. ‘Let’s get out of here. Fast.’

‘Dave, what’s going on?’ Whitlock asked Humphries. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘I told you to shut up,’ Young said to Whitlock as Humphries swung the police car back out into the road.

‘I want to know what’s going on!’ Whitlock demanded. ‘And who’s the woman and the kid?’

‘Quit with the questions, okay?’ Young snapped, glaring at Whitlock.

‘I’ve got a right to know–’

‘You say another word and you’ll get the same treatment as those two next to you,’ Young threatened.

Whitlock slumped back in the seat and said nothing further.

Humphries continued up Kennington Park Road for another six hundred yards then turned right into Braganza Street where he slowed down before swinging the police car into a double garage and stopping beside a lime-green Fiat Uno. He picked up a remote control from the dashboard and used it to close the garage door.

‘Get the lights,’ Young said to Humphries.

Humphries got out of the car and crossed to the light switch. He flicked it on then turned back to the car. His eyes registered sudden alarm. Young was out of the car and holding a silenced Heckler & Koch P9 in his hand, aimed at Humphries. He fired twice. Humphries was thrown back against the wall then his body slid lifelessly to the concrete floor. Whitlock struggled to get out of the car, hindered by the handcuffs. When he did manage to straighten up he found himself staring at the silenced automatic in Young’s hand.

‘I didn’t go to all that trouble just to kill you,’ Young assured him, reaching slowly through the open window and opening the glove compartment, his eyes never leaving Whitlock’s face.

‘There was no reason to kill him,’ Whitlock said, staring at the body slumped against the wall. ‘Why did you do it?’

Young’s fingers curled around the tranquillizer gun in the glove compartment and as he withdrew it a faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. In one quick movement he raised the tranquillizer gun and fired. Whitlock winced as the dart hit him in the neck. The garage began to distort into a kaleidoscope of colours. The floor swayed beneath him. He stumbled to one side, bumping heavily against the wall, his legs losing all sense of balance. He felt himself fall forward.

Young caught him before he hit the side of the car.

Then everything went black.

La Serenissima. Sabrina agreed completely with the name the Venetians had given to their city. It was serene. A city with a complex labyrinth of canals, and calli, narrow streets, supported on piles of Istrian pine which had been driven down twenty-five feet into a solid bed of compressed sand, clay and limestone. She loved it most for its architecture. The Piazza San Marco, dominated by the Basilica with its facade of arches and loggias; the Palazzo Ducale, the seat of power for the past nine hundred years; Santa Maria della Salute, the white octagonal church built after the plague of 1390 which claimed nearly a third of the population. As far as she was concerned, Venice was the most beautiful city in the world.

They had arrived at Marco Polo Airport aboard a UNACO Cessna at midday.

Sabrina had picked up a Beretta from a locker in the terminal (the key had been left for her at the information desk by a UNACO contact) and then they had managed to hire a motorboat taxi, agreeing the fare in advance, to take them to the Rio Baglioni, a small canal near the Rialto Bridge, where Calvieri claimed his contact had seen Ubrino earlier that morning.

‘The helmsman says we’ll be there in another five minutes,’ Calvieri said, resuming his seat on the padded bench beside Sabrina.

She merely nodded, looking across at the Ca’ d’Oro, a magnificent palace with a Gothic facade which was once lavishly adorned with gold and now housed the acclaimed Franchetti collection of Renaissance art.

‘The Ca’ do Mosto,’ Calvieri said, pointing to the thirteenth-century Byzantine palace a hundred yards further on from the Ca’ d’Oro.

She had seen it on her previous visits to Venice but had never found out its name.

‘It was originally owned by Alvise de Mosto,’ Calvieri shouted above the noise of a passing vaporetto, a water bus packed with tourists. ‘He was an explorer who discovered the Cape Verde Islands off the African west coast.’

‘You seem to know a lot about Venice,’ Sabrina said, turning to face him.

‘It’s my favourite retreat,’ Calvieri replied with a smile. ‘I have many friends up here. It’s the most liberal Brigatista stronghold in Italy.’

Sabrina glanced at the helmsman, who had his back to them, then leaned forward, her arms resting on her knees.

‘So why would Ubrino come back? Paluzzi said he’d been hounded out because he was too radical.’

‘I know it doesn’t make any sense,’ Calvieri agreed. ‘But my contact has never let me down in the past.’

‘So you said on the plane. I still think it’s a trap. It’s too easy.’

The helmsman blew the speedboat’s horn as he turned the blind corner under the white Rialto Bridge, then swung the wheel deftly to avoid an approaching gondola. He finally stopped the speedboat at one of the landing stages on the Riva del Carbon and tossed the mooring rope to a teenager on the jetty.

‘You said you’d take us to the Rio Baglioni,’ Sabrina said, getting to her feet.

‘That’s it, the second canal down,’ the helmsman replied, pointing it out. ‘You tell me how I’m going to get in there!’

An unoccupied blue and white speedboat was moored in the entrance to the narrow canal, blocking it to traffic.

‘Some people have no consideration,’ the helmsman muttered, staring at the speedboat.

Sabrina paid him, then scrambled on to the jetty, ignoring Calvieri’s extended hand.

‘Still so sure it’s not a trap?’

Calvieri raised his hands defensively. ‘I never said it wasn’t. But why would my contact want to set me up? We’ve been friends for years. As I’ve said before–’

‘I know, he’s never let you down in the past,’ Sabrina cut in. ‘There’s always a first time. Come on, I want to take a closer look at the speedboat before we go to that address he gave to you.’

It took them a couple of minutes to reach the Rio Baglioni. It was about seven feet wide, half the size of the average canal, and ended in a cul-de-sac. The perfect setting for a trap. Sabrina crouched down beside the speedboat. A canvas tarpaulin lay in the back. It was covering something. She transferred the Beretta from the holster at the back of her jeans to the pocket of her blouson then reached over and pulled back the tarpaulin. Underneath was a cardboard box with the word ‘Valpolicella’ stencilled on the side. Calvieri got down on his haunches beside her.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

They looked round, startled by the voice behind them.

The man was in his mid-twenties. He wore loud checked trousers and a windcheater.

Calvieri got to his feet and eyed the man with obvious contempt.

‘Is this your boat?’

‘Yeah. Why?’ the man muttered in a distinctly American accent.

‘I might have guessed. Only a foreigner would moor a boat here. We live down there. How do you expect us to get our boat past yours?’

‘Where’s your boat?’ the man asked, looking round him.

‘Moored illegally at the Riva del Carbon. Have some consideration, will you?’

The American had the grace to look apologetic.

‘I’ll get the keys,’ he offered, then headed back towards his hotel.

‘False alarm,’ Calvieri said once the man was out of earshot.

‘What’s the address you were given?’

Calvieri took a slip of paper from his pocket. ‘Calle Baglioni 17.’

They moved along the footpath beside the canal, until they reached the house. It was a red-brick building with black shutters covering the four windows and an altana, a wooden terrace, on the roof. He tried the door. It was locked. He glanced the length of the deserted pathway then took a set of skeleton keys from his pocket and unlocked the door on the fourth attempt. He pocketed the keys but Sabrina grabbed his arm before he could open the door.

‘I’m the one with the gun, remember?’

She pushed open the door then pivoted around into the hallway, Beretta extended. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

‘Your contact was right about one thing. Nobody’s lived here for years.’

‘Including Ubrino,’ Calvieri said, joining her in the hallway. ‘A wild-goose chase.’

‘Or a trap.’

They both heard the noise. It came from above. Sabrina led the way up the wooden staircase, wincing every time she stood on a creaky board. A bronze cross, tarnished from years of neglect, was mounted on the wall at the top of the stairs. Calvieri pointed to the door at the end of the corridor, which was ajar. Sabrina nodded, certain the noise had come from inside the room. She kicked open the door then dropped to one knee, the Beretta trained on the figure crouched in the corner. The boy was no older than ten and his eyes were wide with fear. She bolstered the Beretta and crossed to where he was huddled against the wall.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked softly in Italian.

‘Marcello,’ the boy replied, staring at Calvieri. ‘Are you the police?’

‘Ever seen a policeman with one of these?’ Calvieri replied, flicking his ponytail.

Marcello shook his head. ‘Are you from the orphanage?’

‘No,’ Sabrina replied. ‘How long have you been here?’

Marcello shrugged. ‘A week. Ten days. I don’t know.’

‘How do you live?’ she asked.

‘There are many tourists, even in March. I learned how to pick pockets at the orphanage.’

‘How did you get up here?’ Calvieri asked.

Marcello led them to a single window, opened it, and pointed to the trellis against the side of the house.

‘I never use any other part of the house. That way there’s no footprints in the dust to give me away.’

‘You’ve certainly got it all worked out,’ Sabrina said.

‘I don’t want to go back to the orphanage. You won’t tell them where I am, will you?’

‘No,’ Calvieri said before Sabrina could answer. ‘Has anyone else been here in the last couple of days?’

‘Nobody. You’re the only people who know about my hideout.’

Calvieri ruffled Marcello’s hair.

‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us.’

Sabrina took Calvieri out on to the landing and shut the door.

‘How long do you think he’ll last on the streets before the police pick him up?’

‘A lot longer than you think. Give him a chance, Sabrina.’

‘What chance has he got living like this? He’ll probably have a police record before the year’s out.’

‘Have you stopped to think why he ran away from the orphanage? I know Brigatisti who grew up in orphanages and, much as I hate the law, I’d rather see him in a detention centre than having to put up with the abuse that they went through.’

‘You’re talking about isolated incidents. The vast majority of orphanages look after their children.’

‘Are you so sure? And are you prepared to take that chance on his behalf?’

Her brow creased with concern. Taking out the Beretta again she completed the search, by climbing another set of stairs up to the altana The bolt on the door at the top of the stairs had rusted with age. She struggled to draw it back, then pulling the door open, she stepped outside. It was covered with weeds. She checked to see if any of the weeds had been recently disturbed. None had.

Calvieri was waiting for her in the hall.

‘Find anything?’

She shook her head and walked back outside on to the canal path.

Calvieri followed her, securing the front door behind him.

‘So much for your contact,’ she said contemptuously as they made their way back to the canal entrance.

‘I’ll be taking the matter up with him, you can be sure of that.’

The American had moved the speedboat from the mouth of the canal and was busy mooring it fifteen yards away when he saw them approaching.

‘You can get through now!’ he said, reaching for the mooring rope in the back of the boat.

Calvieri was about to reply when he saw the white speedboat dart out from behind a row of vaporetti moored at the Riva del Carbon. He couldn’t make out the pilot’s features but there was no mistaking the stumpy Uzi clenched in his right hand. He knocked Sabrina to the ground and flung himself after her seconds before a fusillade of bullets peppered the wall behind them. Sabrina was the first to her feet and ran to the blue and white speedboat.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ the American hissed, staring after the retreating white speedboat.

‘I’m taking your boat,’ Sabrina said, jumping into the speedboat beside him.

‘Like hell you are,’ the American retorted, stepping in front of the wheel.

She glanced despairingly at the white speedboat. She had to catch it before it turned up one of the side canals. There was no time to lose. She unholstered her Beretta and levelled it at the American.

‘Get out!’

‘Jesus, you’re crazy,’ the American stammered in disbelief, his eyes riveted on the Beretta in her hand.

‘Out!’ she snapped.

The American swallowed nervously then scrambled up on to the jetty. She swung the speedboat round, and headed after the fleeing gunman. The Grand Canal was teeming with an assortment of craft at that time of the afternoon and the gunman used this to his advantage, weaving in and out of the traffic with the consummate ease of a seasoned helmsman. There were vaporetti and motoscafi, water taxis, packed with sightseers; traghetti, two-man gondolas, ferrying shoppers from one side of the canal to the other in search of bargains at the numerous waterside markets; barges laden with fresh produce destined for the luxury hotels; speedboats of all shapes and sizes, careful to keep within the strictly enforced speed limits; and the full-size gondolas transporting the wealthy tourists to and from their hotels which lined both sides of the canal.

She lost sight of the white speedboat and cut across the bow of an approaching vaporetto much to the anger of the helmsman who shook his fist at her to see if the gunman was heading for the other side of the canal. He wasn’t there. She slowed the speedboat to a crawl in order to take a closer look around her. Where the hell had the other boat gone? It had weaved between a couple of barges, then nothing. She accelerated until she reached the spot where she thought it had disappeared. She looked right, then left. Nothing. She looked to her right again. There was another canal leading off from the Grand Canal about twenty yards further on. He could never have reached it in such a short time. Or could he? She slowed the speedboat on reaching the offshoot. The white speedboat wasn’t there. She hailed a youth on the pathway who was unloading crates of fresh fruit from a barge and asked him whether a white speedboat had passed him in the last couple of minutes. He crouched at the edge of the path, his eyes running the length of her body.

‘Nice,’ he muttered. ‘Very nice.’

‘Did you see a speedboat or not?’ she asked angrily.

He scratched his head. ‘Maybe. What’s in it for me?’

‘Forget it,’ she snapped, turning back to the wheel.

Her path was blocked. The mooring rope holding the stern of the barge had been untied and the barge now stood at a forty-five-degree angle to the canal path. It would be impossible to squeeze the speedboat past it. Another youth appeared, holding a gaff. The first youth jumped into the speedboat but before she could react she felt the tip of a switchblade against her ribs.

‘Switch off the engine,’ he ordered. ‘And don’t try to reverse.’

She did as she was told.

‘I’m sure you’re armed,’ he said with a sneer, then reached out a hand to search her.

She raised her hands then brought her elbow up sharply under his chin, rocking his head backwards. She twisted his arm savagely behind his back, disarmed him, then jerked his neck back and pressed the blade against his exposed throat. The second youth approached the speedboat cautiously.

‘Throw it into the water,’ she shouted, indicating the gaff in his hand.

He hesitated and she pressed the blade into the first youth’s throat. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his neck.

‘Do it, Antonio,’ the first youth screamed.

Antonio threw the gaff into the water.

‘Now move the barge,’ she snapped.

Antonio nodded nervously and ran back to the barge.

She tightened her grip on the youth’s hair and pressed the blade harder against his skin. Another trickle of blood seeped from the wound.

‘I want some answers. And if I haven’t got them by the time your friend’s moved the barge I’m going to cut your throat. It might make him a little more cooperative.’

‘What do you want to know?’ the youth gasped.

‘Forget it,’ she snapped, turning back to the wheel.

Her path was blocked. The mooring rope holding the stern of the barge had been untied and the barge now stood at a forty-five-degree angle to the canal path. It would be impossible to squeeze the speedboat past it. Another youth appeared, holding a gaff. The first youth jumped into the speedboat but before she could react she felt the tip of a switchblade against her ribs.

‘Switch off the engine,’ he ordered. ‘And don’t try to reverse.’

She did as she was told.

‘I’m sure you’re armed,’ he said with a sneer, then reached out a hand to search her.

She raised her hands then brought her elbow up sharply under his chin, rocking his head backwards. She twisted his arm savagely behind his back, disarmed him, then jerked his neck back and pressed the blade against his exposed throat. The second youth approached the speedboat cautiously.

‘Throw it into the water,’ she shouted, indicating the gaff in his hand.

He hesitated and she pressed the blade into the first youth’s throat. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his neck.

‘Do it, Antonio,’ the first youth screamed.

Antonio threw the gaff into the water.

‘Now move the barge,’ she snapped.

Antonio nodded nervously and ran back to the barge.

She tightened her grip on the youth’s hair and pressed the blade harder against his skin. Another trickle of blood seeped from the wound.

‘I want some answers. And if I haven’t got them by the time your friend’s moved the barge I’m going to cut your throat. It might make him a little more cooperative.’

‘What do you want to know?’ the youth gasped.

She gave a resigned nod and switched places with him.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Sure, apart from my pride.’ She shook her head, disgusted with herself. ‘I can’t believe I let him get the better of me.’

‘Come on, Sabrina, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re only human–’

‘And so is he,’ she snapped. ‘But why didn’t he kill me when he had the chance?’

‘I’d say he made a pretty good attempt back there,’ Calvieri said, turning the speedboat up the Rio San Polo, one of the largest canals leading off from the Grand Canal.

‘He could have shot me when he came out from behind the vaporetto. Instead he fired into the bow. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘You should just be glad you’re still alive.’ Calvieri moored the boat in a narrow canal off the Rio San Polo then pointed to a house with whitewashed walls at the end of the pathway. ‘It belongs to a friend of mine. We can hide there until the police are gone.’

They scrambled up on to the side of the canal.

‘Tonino?’

He looked round at her in surprise. It was the first time she had used his first name.

‘Tony, please. The last person who called me Tonino was my headmaster.’

‘Thanks,’ she said softly.

‘Strange, isn’t it? This time I saved your life. Another time it might be me in that boat trying to kill you.’

‘Or me trying to kill you,’ she replied, holding his stare.

‘Sure, why not?’ He gave a nervous laugh, then walked towards the house.

La Serenissima. So much for the serenity. Venice would never again be the same for her.